The British Revolution

A piece I wrote for my Advanced Higher History folio in 2012. It's set in a parallel world where a fictional dictatorship's hold on power grows weak, culminating in the British Revolution.

My cheek bursts open as it makes contact
with the cold, hostile slab, sending reverberations deep into my skull. A door bolts somewhere behind and the
silence begins, enveloping me like the blood which drips over my face.

After hours, or maybe days, I regain enough
strength to pull my body up against the stone wall. Its icy surface numbs the bleeding scars across my bare
skin. With effort I loll my neck back
and see stars twinkling, free of earthly burdens. I gaze at them for some time, immersing my thoughts in their beauty.

Pain shreds my chest; I convulse; blood
splatters from my mouth over scabbing skin.
My eyes are diverted down. This
cell is roughly four by four feet; its only feature is a drain. I bring my hands together, my thumb slipping
through where the index finger should be, and whisper prayers of hope.

Bread.
That sacred meal which my family clung to for life. I took the usual route to the queue, sliding
through stinking slums avoiding the back streets where you'd be knifed from
behind, or worse, your ration book stolen.
The first thing I noticed, stepping over an upturned rotting door, was
the lack of beggars. By then I'd have
passed at least a dozen, their weak arms tugging at our own ripped trousers as
if people still had money to give them.
Soon I became aware of a distant roar, which even at this distance was
identifiably full of rage and despair.
I'd only heard the like once, at the annual Dispatch of Traitors, where
enemies of the State would be hanged from the neck until death at the mercy of
a vicious, mostly hired crowd.

I emerged onto Preston Square and looked
out at the mighty tempest that had gathered over it. People stood in every available space, stretching out as far as I
could see; the streets of London flooded.
Some chanted and some shouted, holding banners containing writing too distant
to read. Entire families stood
together, laughing, while other solitary figures shouted hoarsely. I hadn't expected this. Where were the bread queues? My family would starve without the daily
ration. I panicked and pushed past the
shoreline into the depths, wading a delicate path through the excitement. I was pushed against a fair-faced girl,
apologised, then caught a glance of the writing on her banner. "Dieu
et mon droit."

"What does it mean?" I asked
her.

"God and my right," she
answered. I had never seen a girl buzz
with so much energy. She was barely
older than myself. "You know. The monarchy's motto!"

I gaped at her. "But that's treason," I said.

"I know. Isn't it glorious?"

I looked away, hoping that to avert my eyes
would absolve me of this dreadful crime, then continued my search. My father once told me, before the accident,
of a pair of youths who had been arrested for displaying similar
sentiments. They were never seen
again. But this was different, and I
began to realise the scale of the scene I had wandered into. Every single person in the square, and
beyond - there must have been thousands - had similar banners, were shouting
similar obscenities. "Down with
the regime!" often, and even chants of "Olly-olly oxen, see us; we
are free!" in mockery of the first Lord Protector. And there I found myself, in front of his
statue positioned between two marble pillars of the reviled House of
Lords. Normally radiant in rich bronze,
standing in a triumphant pose, the statue was now defaced beyond recognition:
slogans written over the face, doused in paint, older boys hacking away at the
neck.

Pandemonium. Terrifying, exhilarating pandemonium. I knew I would find no bread that day, but somehow that didn't
matter. The hope, the glory of this
moment overwhelmed me, though I didn't fully understand why. I had never felt so powerful.

Pit-crack! The bullets began to fly and I fled home
empty-handed.

The door opens and masked men
throw forward a small figure before slamming it shut. He falls against the wall and slides down onto the slab, next to
me. He looks up and, through a scarred
face covered in burns, I see the face of a child no older than eight years old
staring up at me.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“James,” he rasps.

“Would you like something to
eat?”

He nods. I bend forward over my cracked rib and grab
the bowl of rotting gruel I’ve been rationing, offering it to him. There is no spoon. His trembling hands can’t hold the weight so I help him lift it
to his mouth. He slurps the dregs in one
great gulp, reminding me of a famished dog.

“Thank you.”

We sit together in this cramped
cell in silence for some time until the door is thrust open once again. The men grab my arms and, without a word,
drag me out, again slamming the door shut behind them. I’ll never see the boy again.

A room, dark and damp. They strap me, half conscious, to buckles on
the wall by my hands and leave me to hang with my toes brushing against a chair. There is no light in the room besides a dim
lamp in the corner giving off a green glow, like light gone sour. I can hear a ‘drip-drip’ coming from somewhere. Everything meshes and my eyes close.

The chair is kicked away and
I fall, screaming at the crack of my broken back. My body has turned to fire, blazing inside; wolves drive sharp
teeth into my bones. They ignore my
cries and pleas. Laughter. I’ve lost vision but I can feel the
electrodes as they’re strapped to my arms.
Agony surges through every cell until I feel no more.

"The First Consul of France, despicable tyrant of Europe, made the
following announcement." So said a
wizened news broadcaster on state TV, the BBO, one night a week after the
protests began. I frowned and watched
the television patiently as the peaceable-looking leader of France, genocidal
maniac, began to speak; captioned of course - French was a banned language in
the Commonwealth of Britain.

"The Lord Protector must stand down immediately," the captions
read. The broadcast cut to images of
British soldiers fighting on streets as stirring music played in the
background.

"The French government has admitted to instigating an armed
insurrection in our territory," the broadcaster read. "The Imperial Army is valiantly
fighting these traitors. The Lord
Protector has denied reports he is leaving the country.”

The scene cut to a face imprinted on the mind of every British
citizen. Through the television stared
a face of beauty, a face of infinite kindness, mercy and wisdom. I felt light-headed to look upon such
majesty, dropping my gaze in unworthiness.
Yet, after a moment " gunshots still ringing in my ears - the voice
morphed and I became surprised by how harshly it spoke. I looked up and from out of his flawless
complexion emerged a face carved with hatred and lined by wrath. Eyes peered out from hawkish sockets
blanketed by bushy eyebrows. The man
was hideous in every respect. My first
response was to scald myself for thinking such treasonous thoughts, and then I
tried again.

“My place is here, in this great city, in our great nation,” the Lord
Protector began. “I love Britain; I
love its culture, its strength, its people.
And the people of Britain " they love me.”

The programme was interrupted by a trill of knocks from the front door -
our code for 'family'. I stood up from
the moth-eaten sofa and unlatched the door to find my mother kneeling in the
doorway, crying hysterically.

"Mother!"

She held a body in her arms. The
head fell back and I saw my brother, his eyes ripped out by bullets.

Gunfire
crackles in fits and bursts like a frenzy of ratchets - life snuffed out with
each shot. Even through the rainclouds
above my flooded cell I can see warplanes darting across the sky. I hear at least one ground-shuddering
explosion every minute. Every now and
then a plume of dark smoke will form, blocking out the sky completely. I pray the fighters, whoever they are, can
find me before I rot in this perpetual torment.

The door opens with a clang and a man I
have not seen before, wearing a three-piece suit, enters with a chair and sits
down. He gestures to the guards behind
who step back and slam the door shut.

"I'm so sorry for what you have
suffered," the man says in a typical Etonian accent. He has a kindly look spread across his face
by a faint smile, but his eyes are cold and gaze unremittingly into mine. I say nothing.

"Bit of a drainage problem we have
here?" he says. Again I say
nothing.

"I'm sure this has been a terrible
mix-up," the man said, getting to the point. "You never meant to get caught up in this so-called
'revolution', did you? Impressionable
young lad like yourself... Well, I was young too, once."

Nothing.

"I understand. They promised you freedom, and retribution
for your brother, but violence isn't the answer."

"Violence isn't the answer?" I
croak. "You… bombing London… Slaughtered… brother… You, torturing m..." I lose the
strength and slump against the wall.

"You are terribly confused," the
man continues in his calm, reasonable voice.
"We are fighting merely in defence against foreign agents. They are the ones who killed your brother -
not us. I can ease these conditions for
you. I can take you to a warm room with
delicious food and get proper medical care to these awful wounds. But first, to show us you've seen the error
in your ways, I need you to do one simple thing. Do you think you're up to it?"

I simply stare.

"All you have to do is tell me which
criminal gang you fell in with. Their
names will suffice. The beds are very
warm; wouldn't you like to be warm?"

The walls shudder as another shell
explodes. The man perches on his chair
in anticipation, eyeing me with a look of deep hunger. I discover a lion within myself, caged by
years of oppression, awoken by torture-

"Liar!" I wheeze. "This revolution is true… It won't end… Not until every person in this… country… has
risen up in rebellion… and the Lord Protector… dragged through the gutter… Until
the streets run with his blood; the blood of corruption; the death of
corruption; the death of tyranny!
Nothing… Nothing… can stop it now.
Nothing!" I finish in a retching
fit, spitting blood into the pool.

The man stands. "Let us know when you feel differently. Should be freezing temperatures
tonight."

The door slams shut.

Nothing could have prepared me for the fury
I felt that day. I stood at the fore of
a procession of coffins, the bodies of martyrs killed in previous days'
violence, being carried towards the graveyard.
The streets I'd known my whole life had turned to warzones, with
fighting across every corner and rubble over every pavement. A building blown to bits in the night still
burned in anger across the Thames.

We met with a barrier of disciplined
uniformity blocking the entrance.
Soldiers with guns, scarcely men any longer, watched us approach. A crowd had accumulated behind us, every
person feeling the same hatred for these murderers, their coats red with the
blood of innocents. We continued
forward, our fear cloaked in hatred. My
fists clenched.

The soldiers raised their weapons in a show
of strength and intimidation, but the crowd stood resolute. A cry rang up from behind: “the regime will
fall!” Then shouts of fury and cries of hope spread through the crowd and we
sang, in rhythm, forbidden hymns of freedom.
The power I had felt at the demonstration returned and I knew, together,
we could enter the graveyard, we could tear down the government, and we could
create a free future. My heart soared
with the hearts of thousands, of millions.
The false regime was miniscule next to us.

And then the firing began. Screaming - running - the crowd dispersed in
all directions; down alleys, over the road, or frantically pulling manhole
covers up and clambering inside. I
would not budge. I stood among bodies,
blood spilling past my feet, caring for nothing but to stand my ground for the
sake of my brother - even if it meant being slaughtered in the same way. The air stank of gunpowder. A few others remained; either lying wounded
or, like me, stood staring in horror at the shimmering shapes advancing towards
us through the smoke. They grabbed our
arms, pushing them behind our backs, and shoved us to the ground. I felt the cold steel of handcuffs over my
wrists.

I looked up at the little man dragging me
and laughed. I laughed at his weakness;
so weak he must handcuff an unarmed youth.
I laughed at their fear, and at how obvious their terror of us was. I laughed at the Lord Protector, who at that
very moment was locked in a well-guarded room in fear of the people who
supposedly loved him.

And I laughed at their need to smash my
innocent face against the wall when I refused to stop.

The gunshots are closer now. One pair and then another, which my ears
follow like a tennis match. My prayers
have been answered. Every thug in the
building shall be suitably punished for the centuries of torture weighed
against them. Justice, for the first
time in history, will be done.

The door slides open and I'm hauled to my
feet. I turn to my saviour and see a
gun pointed at my head held by a man covered in Union flags, blue and yellow. He wears terror on his face; a physical
manifestation of what I always knew, backed further against a wall than myself.

"You've been found guilty of treason
against the Commonwealth and been subsequently sentenced to death by the
Supreme Martial Court," he stammers, looking nervously over his
shoulder. "By requirement of the
law you are granted final words. Speak
quickly."

The ground shakes once more from a closer
detonation.

"You
can kill me, but the revolution will never die," I say calmly. "Every life you take is another dozen
enemies you create. My death hastens
your regime's fall."

"Scum. Order is restoring across the country at this very moment - all
traitors will suffer and die like you."

"Lies, more lies. Get on with it."

Behind him a door smashes open and bullets erupt in hails of fire and
rage. I do not feel the lead as it
burrows into my skull and we fall together, victim and oppressor, one in hope
and one in terror.

My Review

Reviews

I want to give the protagonist of this story a high five. I'm glad that at the very least the end was quick, but the interrogation and torture were very sad to read about. I'd love to read more about this universew you have created.

Posted 3 Years Ago

Rating /100

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

3 Years Ago

Thank you! I haven't been writing much lately (the perils of doing a degree...) but it's definitely.. read moreThank you! I haven't been writing much lately (the perils of doing a degree...) but it's definitely a world I'd love to return to at some point. I actually briefly charted out the whole course of history to see how it reached that point!